


Hunger

by hobgoblin123



Category: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman
Genre: Anal, Blood Drinking, Character Turned Into Vampire, M/M, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25330444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobgoblin123/pseuds/hobgoblin123
Summary: Deep down in the Hunter's keep, Damien finds out that completing the bond has more serious consequences than hearing Tarrant in his head...
Kudos: 3





	Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended...  
> Setting: Slightly AU; the Mother of the Iezu revived Tarrant on Shaitan and graced him with the gift of surviving the expiry of his period of grace; but although the compact's broken, he's still undead with all his powers intact. Faced with Andrys waiting for him at the Keep, he can't make mincemeat of that idiot because of a very untimely quake.
> 
> A/N 1: This is a pimped up version of a story I posted on ffnet ages ago.
> 
> A/N 2: I'm not altogether sure whether we had a story with Damien transforming into a vampire before. If so, I apologize in advance and hope you won't take offense, dear fellow author.
> 
> The phrase 'flesh of my flesh' is from the Bible, Genesis 2:23.  
> The first line is from CoS, p. 482.  
> "When one is in the presence of the seemingly impossible..." is a quote from BSR, p. 481  
> 'A pitiful half-life' is from BSR, p. 378

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Go," Gerald Tarrant whispered.

Through the channel Damien could sense Tarrant's visceral dread of dying once again so shortly after his resurrection, and thinking of all the stuff they'd been through side by side, of the Hunter's torture at the hands of entities cruel and merciless beyond human reckoning and his altruistic sacrifice on Mount Shaitan, he made his choice without so much as a whiff of regret. "No chance in hell,” he replied with a grim smile and remained right in the line of fire.

A cold hand gently came to rest on his shoulder, but he didn't dare to take his eyes off Tarrant's last living descendant for a second. "Don't be a fool, Vryce. Now is not the time to strive for martyrdom."

"You're a fine one to talk!" Damien protested hotly. "I'm not the one who sacrificed himself for the sake of humankind on that vulking volcano. You saved us all from eternal slavery, and I won't have that child kill you as a reward for your trials. Period."

"How very touching." Andrys' voice dripped with venom. "Do you really believe in that ridiculous crap you're trying to sell me? He isn't a saviour but a monster, a _thing_ that has killed my entire family without mercy, and I won't miss the chance of avenging them because of your fairy tales. For the last time: Get out of my way or die!"

"No. I'm sorry for your loss, I really am, but your ancestor is my friend, and if you want to harm him, you'll have to do that over my dead body."

"That so?" Andrys laughed manically, his sweaty features twisted into a grimace of hatred. "I don't give a damn whether you live or die, stranger, but as you're so fond of your _friend,_ you certainly won't mind leading the way to hell. You had your chance!"

The Forest had stopped shaking by now, but a Working was still out of the question if one wasn't keen on having one's brain fried to a crisp. Although the Hunter was still as a marble statue, Vryce could feel his fury in his very bones, the adamant determination to attack as soon as the currents halfway allowed it, and he prayed that Tarrant wouldn't feel forced to try the impossible once again. _Not yet, Gerald,_ he thought beseechingly. _Don't make me mourn you twice in a week. Just check yourself and keep him talking. As long as he's babbling, he won't shoot, and it'll buy me time to find a way of getting us out of this mess alive."_

Maybe he should have taken into consideration that the road to hell was paved with good intentions. His frantic train of thought came to an abrupt end when one of Amoril's white wolves suddenly came dashing into the study, a frightening sight to behold with his glowing eyes and slavering snout.

Whether Andrys deliberately carried out his threat or just released the bolt in panic Damien would never know. When it hit him, he staggered back a few steps, all the while staring in utter disbelief at the sharp piece of iron protruding from his chest. It didn't even hurt. Not yet, anyway. But his saliva tasted strangely salty and metallic all of a sudden, and his once so strong limbs seemed to have turned into useless jelly.

Something tugged at his sword belt, but his body rapidly going into a state of shock, he was but dimly aware that Gerald rushed past his fallen form in a motion so utterly inhuman that it would have frozen the marrow in his bones under different circumstances. His hearing sense was the last to go, and even as the jet-black darkness had already swallowed him whole, Andrys Tarrant's blood-curdling screams of pain kept him company on his lonely journey into oblivion.

When he finally came to again, he found himself on a black marble slab, with the God of Pleasure hovering over him like a frightened mother-hen. "How are you, Damien?" Karril asked anxiously. "You were... out cold for almost two hours, and I was beginning to wonder whether Gerald had miscalculated for once. He doesn't like to hear it, but he isn't infallible, as you very well know.

Vryce couldn't have agreed more, but decided to focus on more urgent matters instead of mulling over Tarrant's virtues - or lack thereof. Very much to his amazement, he felt astoundingly well for a man who'd just caught a spring bolt with his chest. Although his front was drenched in blood, not only the pain of his injury, but also all the other minor ailments of a body overtaxed beyond human endurance were gone, and when he drew a deep breath, his lungs carried out their duty just fine.

His brows knitted into a tight frown, he stripped off the sad remnants of what had once been his favourite shirt without bothering to open the remaining buttons and blinked as his eyes fell on bronzed, unblemished skin. Even his old scars were gone.

Damien felt sorely tempted to pinch himself. It was very well possible that a true Healing wasn't denied to Tarrant any longer after the breaking of his accursed compact, but he couldn't even begin to fathom why the man had wasted precious energy reserves on ridding him of the scars he had honourably acquired in battle.

Still somewhat bewildered, he sat up and turned to the God of Pleasure. "What the hell happened after I passed out, Karril? Did Tarrant heal me? And what about that mad look-alike of him and the crusaders?"

"Heal you?" The Iezu looked away, and Damien got the distinct impression that he would have preferred to be somewhere else. "I suggest that you ask Gerald about your state of health, priest. As for your brothers in arms: I suppose not many of them will live to tell the tale of their foolishness to attack the Lord of the Forest, if at all. He wasn't exactly overjoyed that you were shot, and we both know that leniency isn't one of his preeminent character traits. With Narilka already pregnant and the continuation of the bloodline secured, Andrys was the first one to perish, and as you might be able to envisage, he didn't die an easy death feeding the Hunter. Gerald was still in a foul mood when he left to make an end of that insane campaign, and I don't think you'll have to worry about another crusade for many years to come."

Imagining the adept's personal vendetta on the men who had dared to intrude into his domain and had futilely destroyed the better part of his cherished library, Vryce shuddered involuntarily. In a minute he would get going and try to prevent Tarrant from finishing the Church's warriors off to a man, but since he had woken up from his blackout, his body was demanding nourishment with increasing insistence.

Well, that could be helped. A bit of rummaging through the contents of his pack unearthed a dry crust and a piece of cheese that still looked reasonably digestible.

"I wouldn't eat that if I were you, Damien," the Iezu warned. "Don't ask me why, but I'm afraid you won't find that kind of food palatable anymore."

Starving, the warrior knight didn't pay too much attention on Karril's admonitions and wolfed down his meagre meal without even bothering to chew. But he hadn't quite finished wiping his mouth when an irresistible bout of nausea overtook him and bread and cheese made an unplanned reappearance. "Dear God, that was awful,” he choked out, wiping his watering eyes. "The vulking cheese must have gone off."

"It wasn't the cheese," the God of Pleasure muttered uncomfortably. "As it is, I'm not altogether keen on breaking the news to you, but with regard to the fact that Gerald is still enjoying himself with hunting down those pompous idiots, I fear I won't get around it lest further harm is done. You weren't just out cold, Damien. Like Tarrant on Mount Shaitan you died, truly died, but this time it wasn't our progenitor who resurrected you. I don't know exactly how it came to pass, but I fear that somehow you are destined to, well, share Gerald's fate. I'm sorry."

 _Share Gerald's fate?_ At first, Vryce couldn't make head nor tail of the bizarre statement, but when the penny finally dropped, he was up from his sinister resting place and at Karril's throat in a blink. “You must be out of your mind, demon,” he roared, his hands wringing the Iezu's chubby neck. "That's one of your tricks, a scheme you cooked up with that master manipulator to drive me over the edge at last. A fine thank you that is for saving his treacherous butt once again!"

"Let me assure you that I told you nothing but the truth. I can comprehend that this comes quite as a surprise for you, but..."

"A SURPRISE? That's the most ridiculous understatement I've ever heard! But it's not true, anyway. I'm human, you crazy son of a bitch, human and no undead abomination like someone I won't mention. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

"I think he understands you very well, Vryce," a quiet voice cut into his ramblings. "As usual you're making yourself rather clear. And now kindly let go of Karril and pull yourself together. We have to talk."

Damien whirled around. Whatever had come to pass in the Forest had left no mark on the Hunter. His light brown hair arranged in soft waves and the silken robes of an age long gone by impeccably clean, he looked very much his usual aloof, aristocratic self. But those molten pools of silver one could drown in were locked on his face with a strange mixture of curiosity and keen vigilance.

"That's just like you, Gerald,” Karril huffed. “Going a hunting and leaving me behind with a fledgling vampire of your own making! I hope you don't mind me being off to more pleasant occupations while you can try to talk some sense into the priest's stubborn head. For today I've heard enough threats and insults." The God of Pleasure vanished without so much as a farewell nod, leaving no trace of his existence behind.

“Now that fellow has lost it altogether. To call me a vampire just because I brought up the cheese again! Maybe Calesta wasn't the only Iezu with an unbalanced mind,” Damien grumbled.

"Calesta's aspect was sadism, as you very well know. As much as we wished otherwise, he was exactly what his nature demanded. As I used to be before you contaminated my pure evil with your taint of humanity. Maybe you should learn a lesson from him before it's too late."

"Learn a lesson from Calesta? You don't expect me to run riot and set my mind on enslaving mankind, do you?"

"Don't be a bigger fool than usual,” the Hunter snapped. “Considering your masochistic tendencies, I don't suspect that you'll develop a sadistic streak all at once, but that doesn't change the fact that you have to adjust to the altered circumstances. Admittedly, it might be but a small consolation for now, but in time you'll regain a certain amount of control, and if you insist on indulging your philanthropic dispositions, you won't even have to kill your prey. Luckily for you, there's no compact cutting you off from showing whatever small amount of mercy as it happened to me.

"Kill my _prey_? You can't be serious! I've always thought you've got a pretty weird sense of humour, but this tops it all."

"Actually, I'm in no laughing mood. I can understand that you're feeling somewhat overtaken by the events. So do I, by the way, but that's not the point now. As you can't bring yourself to give me some credence, we just have to analyze the changes in your body step by step. First of all, your vision has improved considerably, hasn't it? With regard to the fact that I don't have power over fire, open flames are banned from my sleeping chamber. That includes torches, candles and lamps, and if you were still human, you wouldn't be able to see your hand in front of your face down here without Working your sight."

Tarrant stepped closer and touched his chest with a perfectly manicured fingernail. "Second: your skin. It's devoid of any human warmth whatsoever, although not as cold as my own, and all your wounds closed on their own account after you died. Even your scars are gone, and believe me that this wasn't my doing. Third: Your heart isn't beating any longer, and your respiration is nothing but a habit you could switch off at will if you so choose. It's a law of nature that every mortal creature has to breathe, be it plant, animal or human. That at the very least should give you some food for thought. 'When one is in the presence of the seemingly impossible, that which is merely unlikely becomes more plausible by contrast' I stated a thousand years ago, and that theorem is no less applicable nowadays than it was then."

"Gerald, I... I just don't get it. It can't be true, it mustn't be true..."

The Hunter shrugged. "Stubbornly denying the obvious won't change the facts and is futile in the extreme. But let's come to my final point: You're ravenous, more so with every passing second, but mortal fare doesn't agree with you any longer. Your appetites have changed, Vryce, whether you like it or not. It is said that the proof of the pudding is in the eating, so let me show you what your transformed body craves instead of wasting time on fruitless discussions."

From the folds of his cloak the adept unearthed a small canteen and unscrewed it without further ado. Damien's nostrils flared when the delicious aroma of fresh, warm blood hit him with the force of a blow, and before he even knew what he was doing, he ripped the vessel out of Tarrant's hand and brought it to his lips. He was just about giving in to the mind-blowing hunger and downing the contents like an alcoholic thirsty for the first drink after a long abstinence when the channel opened wide and he saw himself through the Hunter's eyes, pupils so dilated that they seemed to fill the entire orbital cavity and his canines transformed into pointed weapons bearing no resemblance to a human denture whatsoever.

Appalled beyond words, he flung the canteen into a far corner of the lightless vault Tarrant had brought him to. "What have you done to me?" he whispered brokenly. "You told me long ago that you wanted to corrupt me, but couldn't you just content yourself with stripping me of the vocation that meant the world to me? But no, you never do things by halves. You had to drag me all the way down to hell, literally and metaphorically. I hope you're proud of yourself."

A faint flicker of emotion stirred in the fathomless depths of those unearthly silver eyes, but it was gone again before Damien could put a name on it. "Be assured that transforming you wasn't my intention. In all those years I've never even thought of passing on the gift, or curse as you might call it, and I didn't know it was possible. Until now. I can only assume that swallowing a drop of my blood had a rather unexpected side-effect on you. Surely you know the ancient tales from Earth suggesting that drinking of a vampire's blood, you're doomed to become like him after your death. Perhaps you had rather not listened too closely to these excesses of human superstition. Our planet is fickle, and the fae very likely reacted to your fears and triggered the transformation process. I deeply regret what has come to pass, but..."

"For God's sake just spare me your lectures on the fae and your damned regrets, Hunter! A fat lot of use that is to me! There's just one thing I need to know: Where's my sword?"

"Safely stored away for now. You needn't bother to ask me where until you will have come to terms with your fate, and just in case you're toying with the idea of meeting the dawn, you should take into consideration that I Worked the doors and windows upstairs as well as the secret passage. I only make a mistake once, and nothing will get in or out of my castle again without my consent.

"I might curse the night it became necessary to offer you the bond,” the Hunter continued, “but as my creation, you're as much a part of me as the Forest and therefore under my responsibility. By now you should be aware that I'm not inclined to taking chances, and the sooner you accept that there's no easy way out, the better for both of us. Now that that's settled, let's move on to more urgent matters. You need blood, but unfortunately the emergency rations in my storage room were defiled. I can't let you out for a hunt for obvious reasons, but if you give me your word of honour not to attempt anything rash in my absence, I could agree to find you a suitable victim for once. I've still unfinished business with the few surviving crusaders trying to flee from my realm."

"Have you lost your mind?" Damien growled menacingly. "You corrupted bastard damned my soul to hell, but you can neither hold me prisoner for all eternity nor force the vulking blood down my throat! Just get lost and shove your _'suitable victim'_ where the sun doesn't shine, damn you!"

"Really, Vryce, you should pay more attention to my words instead of lamenting about your fate, not to mention that I won't allow anybody to throw me out of my resting place. For the time being you are a guest in _my_ domain, on _my_ terms, and I'd be very much obliged if you could keep your temper in check. Concerning the problem of finding acceptable sustenance, your restraint is outstanding for one of our kind and indisputably honourable, but in the end you won't stand a chance to fight the urge to feed, no matter how hard you try. I know what it's like, and I don't care to relive the experience."

Tarrant cut himself off with a barely perceivable shudder, and a gut-wrenching expression of terror passed over his ageless countenance. "The thirst is... unquenchable in the beginning,” he whispered, "and it took me decades to impose my will on my feeding habits. Centuries to find a way to sustain myself other than with human blood. Do yourself a favour and bow to the inevitable before the gnawing pangs of hunger start in earnest. What you're feeling now is but a small reminder of it. See, and you'll understand."

All at once the Hunter's most private sanctuary faded into nonexistence, and Damien found himself in a narrow lane that was rather sparsely illuminated by a single streetlamp. Judging from the constellation of the stars, it had to be in the dead of night, but strangely he had no trouble whatsoever to discern every single beard-stubble of the portly, middle-aged fellow bawling a silly ditty on his way home. The banal scene was as peaceful as it went, but just when he was about asking Tarrant what the heck was so important about the nocturnal adventures of a drunk, his gaze locked on a shadowy shape crouched behind a low hedge.

The creature's robes were a filthy, torn mess and the expression on its blood-caked face only marginally human, but Damien would have recognized that tall, lean frame under millions. _Oh God, Gerald..._

Knowing what was to come, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, but there was no escaping the adept's memories assaulting him via the channel. Tarrant pounced upon his hapless victim fast as lightning, dragged the thunderstruck man to the ground and tore his throat out with teeth like a mouthful of daggers, all the while snarling like a rabid animal. Everything drowned in a shower of red. Damien should have felt pity, rage at the killing of just another innocent or plain disgust. But all he could think of was how inviting the blood Tarrant had offered him had smelled, how the single drop he'd tasted with the tip of his tongue had sent shock waves of delight through his entire body, and hunger erupted in the pit of his stomach like wildfire.

Then the pain started, wave after wave of excruciating agony as if every cell of his body were exploding and his nerve endings singed, and he finally knew how his companion must have felt on that damned roast in the caves of the lost ones. Nothing, absolutely nothing had ever hurt like this, neither the wounds he had sustained fighting demonlings nor the acid bite of the Hunter's nightmares. Writhing on the hard stone floor, he could think of nothing but that he had to feed at once or die.

Damien dragged himself to his knees with an agonized moan and crawled into the corner where he had flung the damned canteen. It was empty, a discovery that tore a sob out of his chest. Half-crazed with greed, he lapped at the small puddle left on the ground like a starving animal, but it wasn't enough. Not by a long shot.

All at once a silk-clad arm circled his waist and steadied him. Forcing his eyes open, he looked straight into the Hunter's tense face. "Gerald, please help me," he gasped, at the end of his tether. "I can't take this anymore. I have to... I need..."

"I know what you need, Vryce. I told you so. Why do you have to learn everything the hard way?" Sighing softly, the adept drew his dagger and bared his left forearm. "As usual you're a veritable pain in the neck, but fortunately I had a good meal hunting down the imbeciles who dared to oppose me. It goes without saying that I've no intention whatsoever to act as your personal donor, but this once you can feed on me."

That act of compassion was so unlike the Hunter that it penetrated the crimson fog clouding Damien's brain. When his companion had sacrificed an existence spanning nigh to a millennium for the sake of mankind on Mount Shaitan, it had felt as if a part of his soul had died with him. Tarrant had suffered enough, had even come close to dying again that very day at the hands of his unworthy descendant, and he just couldn't bring himself to cause him further harm, whatever part the man had played in his unholy transformation. "Gerald, don't," he choked out between gritted teeth. "Famished as you were, you need the blood yourself. It wouldn't be right."

The Hunter smiled. "I won't pretend that I'm not grateful for your concern, but I drank enough to keep both of us going. I'm offering, Vryce."

Damien swallowed convulsively. Equipped with the keen senses of a predator, he could smell the human blood Tarrant had recently fed on, and when the Neocount opened a vein in his wrist with a quick cut, he simply couldn't resist any longer. Surrendering to his baser instincts, he pressed his mouth to the wound and started to feed.

It was a revelation. Moaning in ecstasy, he sucked as hard as he could, relishing each and every spurt of hot, salty blood gushing down his throat. Tarrant winced but didn't draw back, letting him drink his fill.

As the gnawing pangs of hunger were slowly subsiding, another kind of need flared up in his abdomen. Under different circumstances he might have panicked at the mere thought of desiring the Hunter, but in his current state he couldn't have cared less. Without thinking twice, he pulled Tarrant into a close embrace, halfway expecting a scathing rebuke at the very least. But the adept didn't push him away, even pressed himself against him with a low, wistful sigh, and so close to each other there couldn't be a doubt that the man was no less turned on by the proceedings than Damien himself.

But suddenly Tarrant snaked out of his arms in one single, effortless motion and stepped back. "We mustn't go on,” he breathed. "As much as I regret it, all acts of procreation are as deadly to me as the sunlight. I don't want to die again. Not now, when I've finally found something I deemed forever out of my reach."

At first glance the adept's face was utterly calm and composed, but Damien knew him well enough to recognize the slight crease between his elegantly arched eyebrows as a sure sign of distress. As if a veil had been torn from his eyes, he allowed himself to truly acknowledge the Hunter's ethereal beauty for the first time, glorying in his flawless alabaster skin and perfectly proportioned facial bones, and he realized that Tarrant might not be the only one who'd found something precious that night.

Ever so gently, Damien cupped his face with his hands. "Stop worrying, Gerald,” he murmured. "The vulking compact doesn't exist any longer, and you're free to do as you please. You can't call the lovemaking of two undead males an act of procreation, anyway, right?"

For a small eternity Tarrant just stared at him, not even breathing, but just when he was starting to wonder whether he had completely misinterpreted the situation, the adept bent forwards and kissed him. His lips were cold but so very soft, and Damien forgot all about the pitfalls of his new existence.

Lost in sensation, he very nearly jumped out of his skin when air whooshed past him and he was suddenly back on the goddamn black marble slab that had witnessed his resurrection. "I'd like to see the day you won't scare the shit out of me. Any other trick you completely forgot to inform me about?” he grumbled with fake annoyance.

Tarrant chuckled. "You'd be surprised, Vryce. The night is getting old, but I presume there's still enough time for a short object-lesson on one of my specialities. Shall we?"

Before he could open his mouth to inquire what the heck was that supposed to mean, Tarrant narrowed his eyes. Askance, Damien gaped at his naked limbs. "This _speciality_ of yours is quite... amazing,” he forced out when he had regained the capacity for coherent speech, "but I'm afraid you have me at a slight disadvantage now."

"As usual. The Banishing of your clothes wasn't a part of the lesson, though. Any third-class sorcerer worth his or her salt should be able to do this. Care to find out what's truly covered by your syllabus?"

The sparkle in those pale eyes left no doubt that the adept wasn't in the least referring to a subject usually taught at Erna's schools. His tongue seemingly glued to the roof of his mouth, Damien settled for a nod.

Tarrant rewarded him for his compliance with one of his rare true smiles. It was utterly devoid of malice or derision and transformed his face into something straight out of a fairy tale. He looked so young and beguiling, so very much like the Prophet of the Law must have looked in an age now long gone from living memory, that it took Vryce's breath away. He could only watch in utter fascination as Tarrant reopened the vein in his wrist and took a sip of his own blood.

Instead of swallowing, the Hunter kissed him again. Damien's lips parted for him without hesitation. Dear God, Gerald feeding him mouth to mouth was the most mind-blowingly sensual experience ever. His hunger flared up again with a vengeance, not for the red liquid that would determine the parameters of his very existence from now on, but for the man he'd come to desire more than anything or anyone before, his vocation included.

Almost painfully aroused, he fiddled around with the bothersome layers of cloth denying him access to the object of his desire until midnight blue silk tore to tatters under the grip of his fingers. "Why, you're doubtlessly an impatient man," the Hunter purred into his ears. "I don't mind a certain amount of passion while bedding a man, but I'd rather not have to mend my robes all over again. It's getting somewhat enervating."

Before Damien could do so much as blink, Tarrant was laying in his arms without a stitch on, all smooth, creamy skin and lean muscles. His instincts screamed at him, begged for instant fulfillment, but he knew that proceeding without the use of a decent oil and a fair amount of preparation would spell disaster.

But when the adept pulled him on top of him with an inviting smile, he couldn't resist the determined fingers guiding him where he'd never gone before, nor thought that he ever would. Tarrant's body welcomed him without any sign of discomfort, and moving inside him, ever so carefully at first and then faster with every passing second, was bliss beyond words.

Spurned on by his lover's half-stifled sounds of pleasure , Damien was rapidly approaching the point of no return when slender fingers dug into his hips and brought his thrusts to a sudden halt. "Bite me, Vryce,” Tarrant whispered. "I've never considered it possible that I would ask for this one day, but I .. I'd like it very much. Not my wrist, though. Be what you're meant to be and do it the old way."

Damien blinked. ' _The old way?'_ After a mere few hours he was still a newcomer in the ranks of the undead, but like everybody else on their strange planet, he'd heard his own fair share of disturbing tales about nocturnal hunters and their preference for delicate necks. Tarrant himself had been forced to exist as a low vampire after his transformation. 'A pitiful half-life' he'd called it back in the Rakhlands, leaving no doubt that he'd loathed taking on a form so purely centred on brutal physical violence. That the very same unrivalled master of self-control now was encouraging him to unleash the monster inside him was astounding, to put it mildly. Try as he might, he simply couldn't wrap his head around it.

His mind reeling, the warrior knight pondered his options. Unlike Tarrant, he hadn't struck a bargain with the Unnamed to become what he was now. Although technically undead, no entity evil beyond mortal reckoning influenced his thought processes or cut him off from showing compassion. That somehow seemed to make a hell of a difference. His thirst aside, he was still very much Damien Kilcannon Vryce, and he verily intended to keep it that way. Henceforth, it didn't seem advisable to indulge in an act so utterly alien to the mortal plane.

But everything else paled into insignificance when the Hunter tilted back his head and pulled him closer to his left jugular. Whatever was coursing through Tarrant's veins had seemed black and icy on their way to Shaitan, a far cry from delectable human blood, but after the man had feasted on the unfortunate crusaders to his heart's content, the delicious aroma tickling Damien's nose was simply irresistible.

He hit the mark with the sureness of a sleepwalker. The sweet taste of Tarrant's blood on his tongue was all it took to shatter the last remnants of his restraint, causing him to drive his fangs even deeper into the cold, yielding flesh beneath him. The adept's hands were on his hips again, urging him on, and now there was no holding back any longer, no compunctions and principles, just the overwhelming need to move harder and faster and on and on in his desperate craving for release.

Suddenly the Hunter let go of him, just to snatch his left wrist. In the next moment Tarrant buried his teeth inside him, and he very nearly came undone. Now they were truly one, linked forever by a circular flow of blood and desire, and at this particular time he was damn sure the loss of his humanity had been worth it. _Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh,_ a light tenor whispered at the back of his mind, and the yearning and affection resonating therein propelled Damien's arousal to unprecedented heights. Then the adept came under him, jerking and moaning in the throes of passion, and the world faded into nonexistence as the rhythmical pulse around him triggered his own climax.

Afterwards they were resting in each others arms, utterly blissed out. "What are your plans now?" the Hunter inquired after a while, his clear eyes locked on Damien's face with barely veiled apprehension. "Could you get used to the idea of making this place your permanent base, or do you still want to die again?"

"And leave you to revisit your bad habits? Not a snowball's chance in hell! For my part we can spend the next millennium together, but there are some conditions."

"Conditions?" Tarrant scowled. "I don't deny that we had a pleasurable night, but you had better remember that I won't be dictated to."

"Be that as it will, these are my terms: First of all, there won't be any more killing. That includes the surviving crusaders. We are what we are, but from now on our _donors_ will return home alive and kicking, with a few bucks in their pockets for their contribution to our menu. You don't exactly strike me as a poor man, and you'll get over the loss soon. Agreed?"

"You need blood again,” the Hunter mused. “The hunger's definitely addling your mind. Wallow in your helper syndrome all the way you want to, but you don't truly suggest that I'll pay for my sustenance, do you?"

"Don't you worry about my mind, Gerald. It's working just fine. Reminds me that you finding a way out of this vulking mess is also a part of the bargain. It's about time that you put your brilliant brain cells into a better use than planning your next hunt."

The withering look Tarrant shot him was utterly lost on Damien. "You've grown on me,” he went on, "but I can't partake in the slaughtering of innocents. It would destroy me as surely as the rising sun. Now you can either chuck me out and return to your accustomed lifestyle or make a compromise. The choice is yours."

A flash of defiance passed over the angelic features, and Damien held his breath. "I should punish you for your audacity," Tarrant replied eventually, "but maybe it's indeed time for a slight adjustment of what you call my _lifestyle._ Who knows better than I that evolving is the price for survival? But don't expect miracles, Vryce. I'll need time to change my acquired tastes. So will you, by the way.”

“And the crusaders?”

“I killed about a dozen of them, and the predators in my domain will have decimated their numbers even further by now, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt if a few of them returned to Jaggonath alive. As a matter of fact, they would do me a favour. Have you ever heard about the so called 'doctrine of deterrence'? If so, you should know that their stories about the horrors of Jahanna will spare me a lot of killing in the future. Accept their miserable lives as a token of my esteem. Anything else you'd like to get off your chest?"

"Just one more thing. I want a decent bed."

"A... bed?" The expression on Tarrant's face was priceless.

"Yeah. Four legs, frame, mattress, quilts and pillows, just in case you don't remember what it looks like. The whole works. For both of us. Presumably I should be grateful that you don't insist on sleeping in a coffin to keep up appearances, but I'd rather not spend the days down here on a vulking marble slab. And while we're at it, your interior fitting could do with a bit of refurbishing as well. That orgy of red and black is outright depressing. No wonder that you've taken a fancy to acting the bad boy."

When the adept turned his back on him, Damien was pretty sure he'd finally overstepped the mark. Why on Earth and Erna couldn't he keep his big mouth under control, just this once? Tarrant had made a lot of concessions so far, and now he had to ruin everything with his silly banter.

Ready to make amends, he rested a hand on a cold shoulder – and almost jerked it back in shock. Instead of being livid, his lover seemed to fight a losing battle against a wholly unwonted bout of mirth. "Mind telling me what's so funny?" Damien asked perplexedly.

"You're truly one of a kind," the Hunter sniggered. "So much to ' _in my domain, on my terms_ '. For the sake of peace and quiet you shall have your bed, but banish the thought of me singing you to sleep. That would jar too much with my hard-earned _bad boy_ image."

Grinning broadly, Damien relaxed. By now he could feel the rising dawn in his bones, and a strange kind of lethargy came over him, whispering of the joy of resting in the cool, protective darkness, just to rise again when the sun had set and the predators of the night left their lairs in the never-ending search for prey. From now on he would share their fate, but gazing at the man resting at his side, he couldn't bring himself to regret what had come to pass. His soul completely at peace for the first time in years, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.


End file.
